


It Is Not About Being Noticed, But Being Remembered

by startrekkingaroundasgard



Series: Tony Stark Bingo Mark IV [8]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Gift Giving, Science, Secret Admirer, soft touches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 01:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30014292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekkingaroundasgard/pseuds/startrekkingaroundasgard
Summary: The reader, a scientist and researcher, receives gifts and a ticket inviting them to a Stark Industries benefit. She doesn’t go but a few days later the one and only Tony Stark turns up in her lab and personally invites her to the next event.TSBMIV: R1 - Secret Admirer
Relationships: Tony Stark/Reader
Series: Tony Stark Bingo Mark IV [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2045506
Kudos: 24





	It Is Not About Being Noticed, But Being Remembered

You glanced up, attention drawn from the complex set of code by _another_ round of knocking against the reinforced window. It was a cheery rhythm but you felt the exhaustion, the irritation, behind it in the sharpness of his raps. You personally felt the heavy sigh as he met your gaze, only a desperate need for cash stopping him from breaking professionalism and screaming in your face.

This was getting ridiculous.

The courier, barely eighteen, smiled tightly at you as he held out the fourth gift today. He asked your name as if he didn’t know every syllable by heart, his grin sliding nearer to manic as he passed over his device for a signature. The box was smaller than the others, about the size of your palm, wrapped in the same matt black paper as the others. There was, as you’d come to expect, no tag on this one either. For the best, you supposed, lest your delivery man use it to track the person responsible for this ridiculous joke.

He thrust it onto the worktop, tightly pressed lips quivering as if he almost believed this was some kind of personal vendetta against him. You didn’t blame him. Bad enough that the poor lad had had to drive out to your secluded lab multiple times a day for over a week now but, since yesterday, the lift was also out of operation so he had to climb three sets of stairs for every single delivery too.

“I’m so sorry,” you muttered, signing for the delivery and setting it on top of the others. “I swear I’ve got maintenance coming tomorrow to fix the lift. If there’s any more just leave them by the plant pot in reception. You really don’t have to come up every time.”

“Just go on a date with them, already. Maybe then they’ll stop trying to buy your attention with things.” The lad took a final, long suffering glare at the growing pile of presents and forced a bright smile on to his face. You felt for him, truly. “Have a _wonderful_ afternoon.”

With that he left, his heavy footsteps echoing up the stairwell until the door to your lab finally swung closed. Alone, you took in today’s selection of gifts and pulled up a stool, scraping it angrily against the tiled floor. You’d lost your trail of thought concerning your work so might as well deal with it while there was nothing better to do.

In the order they were delivered, you tore the precisely wrapped paper from the boxes, tossed it into the bin then set the gifts out in a line across the worktop. It took a full minute before a single, fully formed thought broke through the incredulity, it being: what the actual fuck?

From left to right, the gifts were as follows: a slinky cocktail dress that was alarmingly the perfect size, with such a sharp neckline that you could almost cut yourself on it; a pair of nude heels that cost more than half the machinery in your lab and were five inches higher than you felt comfortable walking in; a sparkling necklace which cast rainbows around the room as you lifted it to the light; and, finally, a gold embossed ticket to a benefit at Stark Tower tonight.

This had to be someone’s idea of a joke, surely?

You didn’t belong at an event like that. Sure, Stark Industries owned the research company that leased your lab but that was your single connection to them. The people that went to these benefits all had guilty consciences and millions to burn – evidenced by the sheer expense of these gift; in fact, the very act of sending you these meant your admirer had realised you wouldn’t have the right sort of outfit for such an event. They knew you didn’t belong there.

Worse than questionable morals and unmatchable expenditure, you knew they would have no interest in the sciences other than how much money they could make from them and didn’t give a solitary fuck about the art of what you were doing here. You would stand out as an imposter a mile off and if your secret admirer expected you to drop everything and turn up on the off chance that they might reveal themselves they were more delusional than you initially thought. It would take more than shiny lumps of carbon and pretty clothes to win you over.

Shaking your head, you tossed the invitation in the bin and returned to your work. Whoever the sender was, wherever they’d caught a single glance and decided you were the one, obviously didn’t know you as well as they imagined. It wouldn’t matter anyway. Someone with this sort of money to through around would have countless other people clamouring to hang off their arm tonight. Your absence most definitely wouldn’t be missed. 

***

“Be _nice._ ”

“I’m always nice.”

“No, you’re not.” Daryl Fleeting, the man who signed off your wages and paid to keep your machines running, scowled, unamused. “Just because these people have money doesn’t mean they are idiots. Don’t treat them like ones.”

He swept the papers off your workstation into an empty bin, oblivious to the fact it had taken over an hour to organise them in such a way to aid inspiration, citing only that they made the lab look a mess. He dressed the now empty workbench with a set of test tubes and a selection of chemical bottles, the labels of which all read: _hazardous, handle with care._

“You should come with that same warning,” Daryl grumbled, earning a smile. For all that you argued, he appreciated the work you did here and you appreciated the excessive funding he allotted your research. That extra zero was more than enough incentive to put up with his otherwise abrasive personality. “Where’s the hydrochloric acid?”

“Surprisingly, it’s in the cupboard that says hydrochloric.”

There was no need to point out that you weren’t using any of those compounds on this particular project. This entire open day, like the rest of them, was for show and, like any good performance, required set dressing. Daryl too was dressed for the occasion; he sported his best tie and a freshly pressed lab coat, his company logo proudly embroidered onto the pocket in case the new benefactors forgot who to make the cheques out to.

Even you had changed your comfortable jeans for a smarter look today, under protest of course. This morning, Daryl flooded your phone with messages and clear warnings as to what would happen if you weren’t on your absolute best behaviour today. So, as annoying as it was, you’d pulled your neatest outfit and even practised smiling at bad joked in the bathroom mirror.

“I mean it. Be polite, answer their questions and thank them for their generosity.”

“Yes, yes. You don’t need to tell me twice.”

As it turned out, one more reminder might have been useful. In the hours that followed, six separate tour groups passed through your lab and every single one was made up of genuine idiots. They didn’t care about your work at all, instead far too excited by the ‘dangerous’ chemicals and liquid nitrogen that cooled some of your equipment. You were quite tempted to pour it over the next person that asked to drop a piece of their lunch into the canister. Flash frozen bananas are cool when you’re twelve but hardly cutting edge science.

However, with every interruption, you dropped your analysis and plastered a smile on your face, sending a thumbs up to Daryl each time one of the visitors spilt diluted acid on their designer jackets or set fire to one of your lab books.

As the flow of tourists ebbed, you finally settled back at your computer and returned to skimming your simulation coding for errors. It was so easy to get lost in the slow scrolling of text on the screen, to fall into the work and let it wash over you, pull you into its wonder. Errors jumped out like bum notes amid a symphony and slowly but surely you felt the programme tuning up and preparing for its first, spectacular performance.

“Now that _is_ interesting.”

You nearly leapt out your seat, only the hand hovering over your shoulder keeping you from falling off your stool. Jolted back to your surroundings, it took a second to centre your mind – his distinctive cologne definitely helped – and actually recognise the voice in your ear. Turning from your trusty screens, your cheeks grew tight as yet another false smile fell into place. “Mr Stark.”

“The one and only.”

“I thought all the tours were over for the day.”

“I don’t do well in groups,” he said, pulling up a stool. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, smartened up by a perfectly fitted blazer, Stark somehow still managed to make you feel underdressed. From behind tinted glasses, he looked you over, a small smile playing on his lips, before turning his interest to the computer. “Tell me about your work.”

“I’m part of a team trying to develop room temperature superconductors. We’ve designed three new compounds this year and are currently in phase one development. If all goes well, we should have viable products within two years. The applications are wide ranging and -”

Stark shook his head, pulling off his glasses and waving them in the air. “No, I read the brochure. I know what Fleeting is trying to sell. Tell me what you do.”

It was truly something being the object of Tony Stark’s interest. He listened intently as you explained the complex processes you and your international colleagues had developed. Instead of glazing over, his dark eyes positively lit up when you began describing your attempts to measure the gap symmetry of your newest compound and the curious results that your first experiments had yielded.

You talked him through the model you were building and what you hoped it would achieve. You knew he was smart but Stark absorbed your explanations faster than almost any other expert would, supplemented the discussion with in depth and technical questions and never, not for a single second, looked bored or lost in the conversation.

It was a remarkable feeling talking to him, like finding someone in a distant and foreign country that actually spoke your language, who saw the intricacies of your vision and admired the possibilities of your creation. Years you had worked with this lab, partnered with other scientists in overlapping fields around the world, yet this was the first time you ever felt truly understood.

When you finally finished your explanation, Stark leaned back, momentarily forgetting that the stool had no support, but caught himself with practised grace, hand curling around the edge of your own seat. Heat spread across your cheeks as he took you in, eyes roaming up your body, lingering on your lips. “You are quite remarkable.”

“I’m sure you say that to every woman you meet.”

He didn’t deny it but the words still hovered between you, charged with the promise of… something. It was a terrible idea though, even with this sparked connection, and you just rolled your eyes, starting the shut down process for your computer. There was more work to do, there always was, but it was safer to leave now then risk lingering and succumbing to his charms.

“Thank you for this,” you said, surprised by how sincerely you meant it. “I hate these open days but this was actually nice.”

Stark paused, then laughed. Not at you – at least, that wasn’t how it felt – but at some private joke you thought it was probably better not to know. He unfolded his glasses, kept them in hand as he took the hint and strode to the door. However, before he left, he dropped down suddenly and plucked the ticket to the benefit from the bin. “What’s this?”

“A joke, I’m sure.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

Surprised by the serious tone, you shrugged and started to tidy away the chemicals Daryl had littered around your workspace. A necessary job that thankfully looked casual and not like you were actively avoiding his intense gaze. “Those things are the worst. I’ve been to a few for the lab in the past and you never meet anyone interesting.”

“You’d have met me.”

“You would have been far too busy charming everyone else to notice me.”

“I doubt that,” he said, suddenly by your side.

Unnecessarily close, he handed you the final two flasks of acid, fingers – rough yet so very soft – ghosting over yours. That tension flared once again, igniting the limited space between you. Your skin tingled, your mouth went dry as you tried to thank him.

Neither one of you moved, too caught in the moment to risk it shattering. His gaze never faltered, the intensity never wavered. He simply reached around you and closed the cupboards, warm hands guiding yours back down to your sides. The lingering touch left you shaking as Stark pulled away, leaving you to ultimately take the leap.

When you made no move, he slipped his glasses on and threw you the most dazzling grin. It made you miss the softer ones from before, when theorising about tri-symmetries had creased his brow, when the prospect of the impossible had made him lean closer and smile like you held all the answers in the universe – or at least that you could find them together.

Stark stepped around the work bench, now just another barrier between you, and pulled a fancy pen from inside his blazer. He tore a page from a half burned note book and scribbled a few lines onto the paper. “I’ll call you sometime.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” He folded the paper in half and slid it over to you. “The foundation is hosting a charity auction at the end of the month. You should come. Consider this your ticket.”

“That’s kind but I don’t think it’s my sort of thing. And I definitely won’t have the money to bid on anything.”

Tucking his pen back into the inside pocket, Stark pondered, “I wouldn’t be too sad about that; most of the lots are uninspiring this year. But the food will be great! They booked the best chefs in the world. Come for the free food, if nothing else.”

“I appreciate the offer, Mr Stark, really, but -”

“Tony, please. And I promise Pepper will sit you with someone interesting. Say yes.”

His insistence, while bordering on pushy, remained charming. Although you couldn’t understand why, he genuinely seemed to want you there. Figuring that you could change your mind at any point in the next few weeks, when sense finally took a hold, you agreed. “Yes, okay. I’ll go.”

“If you need an outfit, let Pepper know.” Met with your frown, he nodded at the piece of paper. “Her number. It’s the easiest way to get a hold of me.”

“I’ll sort something myself but thank you.” Stark nodded and turned for the door but paused when you asked, “Why did you come to see me, today? There are plenty of other inspiring projects in the building. Why check on mine?”

You watched his fingers tapping on the door frame, felt the weight of the momentary silence as he formed an answer. “I did notice you, before. At another benefit. The way you talked circles around Justin Hammer was incredible so I looked you up. Read some of your research, saw this open day and decided to check you out in person.”

“Did I meet your expectations?”

“Exceeded them.”

A warmth spread across your cheeks once again and you became very interested in the torn edge of the paper. Already able to guess, you asked quietly, “All those gifts, they were from you, weren’t they?”

However, by the time you looked up for an answer, Tony Stark was gone.


End file.
